


evermore

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: rarepair_shorts, F/M, Magic, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Yule, 1984. In which magic and meddling merge to unite an unlikely pair.





	evermore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [are_guile](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=are_guile).



> Written for are_guile as part of the 2017/18 Rare Pair Shorts Gift Exchange. Originally posted [here](https://rarepair-shorts.livejournal.com/617907.html) with the note: 
> 
> Thank you to the mods for being so patient with me! And thank you to my beta, because this wanted to be so much longer than the word count allowed and there’s no way I would’ve cut it down without their help. are_guile, I tried to incorporate as much of your wishlist as I could, and I hope this meets your expectations!

Severus is two days into a potion when Albus approaches him, his purple robe an unusual sight amongst the rows of ingredients that line the office walls, the shimmer of beetle eyes and pixie dust almost reflective under the low light. Severus does not care for what he has to say before he’s even started to speak. The potion in front of him is in a crucial stage; experimental, prone to explosion, an old attempt at an elixir for major curses—one he’d had to stop working on while under the Dark Lord’s rule. The contents are a bright and bubbling pink, the fumes almost suffocating as they waft up, ingrain themselves into his robes, his hair. There is no time for one of Albus’ little  _chats._

Classes had finished two days prior, and he’s been working on it since—relentlessly, without pause. The last time he’d slept was at the twelve-hour mark, where a two-hour lull in the preparation allowed for a quick drowse. He’d done it at his desk; chin to chest, the chair beneath him hard, solid, cold. It was hardly ideal, but then, he doesn’t sleep much, anyway.

“Minerva and I spoke today,” Dumbledore starts, cheery and calm. Severus flicks his gaze to him before bringing it back to his potion, agitated as he waits for Dumbledore to get to the point. “All students are returning home. She’s suggested a celebration of Yule,” Albus tells him, and if Severus had the time to look, he’d see the twinkle in his eye; clear, bright, almost amused. “I think it will be rather fun.”

Severus grunts, slips a sliver of a Murtlap tentacle into the cauldron, watches as it dissolves to nothing, as the bright pink of the liquid shifts, morphs into something darker, settles on a shimmering mauve. He reaches for his knife, wipes it across a spare rag, and plucks a stem of dittany from the row of ingredients in front of him, waiting for Albus to continue.

“We thought you could gather the supplies for a log.”

A command, not a question, and yet the expression on Albus’ face is expectant, like he’s waiting for a response. There is a sigh itching at the back of Severus’ throat, a question of why him and not Sprout, but he swallows it, stifles it.

“Of course, Headmaster.”

Albus smiles; small, satisfied. “Wonderful.”

A quick goodbye, and then he’s turning to take his leave. Severus has one eye on the clock, waiting to drop a shredding of dittany into the cauldron at every thirty-second interval—crucial, lest the contents explode in his face—and another on the bubbling potion. A soft sizzling sound starts as the first set of shavings hit, the volume increasing as his spare hand stirs the ladle. Twice, anti-clockwise, slow and steady.

He almost doesn’t hear Albus speak from the doorway, but he manages to catch on to the call of  _Sybill will be assisting you._  He turns sharply, mouth opening to ask  _why,_  but Dumbledore has already disappeared. There is only an open door and an empty corridor, a cool gust of wind disturbing the warmth of potion fumes.  

He realises a second too late that the dittany needs to be added, and as two days’ worth of work explodes in front of him, the liquid flying from the cauldron and coating the room with a boiling, slimy substance, Severus supposes that he should have seen this coming.

 **

“Severus.”

He does not look up. His attention is focused on the plant in front of him, his hands sifting through stick after stick of cinnamon, the smell of the spice heavy in the air; aromatic as the wind carries it through the greenhouse. It surrounds him, seeps into the fabric of his robe alongside the dampness of the melting snow, the faintest hint of pine, holy, evergreen discernible within its aroma. In his head, he lists the practical uses of cinnamon, recalls the impact of Ceylon trees on medical research from the eighteenth century onwards.

“Severus.”

The voice is louder now, like she thinks he hasn’t heard. He continues to ignore her, places a handful of cinnamon in the basket beside him, the gentle brown sitting in a sea of evergreen and blending seamlessly with every scattered pinecone. He thinks of tradition, of medieval celebration, of the first ever Yule Log he’d made with his mother: four years old, bright eyed with curiosity. Father had been away.

“Severus, can you—”

“What.” His voice is flat, clipped. He turns in a sharp, fluid movement, catches Trelawney’s eye for a fleeting second.

An odd woman, Trelawney. Both in looks and attitude. Severus remembers her, faintly, from their shared time at school, but remembers her more from  _that night_. That fateful night. The one he’s tried so hard to forget.

“Albus said to help,” she says now, craning her neck to gaze at his work, head peeking out above a pile of Sprout’s mistletoe clippings.

“I don’t need it.”

A quiet pause follows; not  _silent_ , but quiet. There is still the brush of metal against metal, Sybill’s many necklaces jostling as she leans forward, still the scrape of a boot’s heel against the ground, still the distant drip of a leaky faucet, still the rustle of leaves as Severus continues to gather the needed supplies. He listens, waits to hear the sound of Sybill leaving, but it doesn’t come. Rather, the scrape of her boot turns to soft footsteps. Severus can feel her move, can sense her beside him.

She drops a handful of mistletoe into his basket, smooths it over with her hand; thin and bony, ligaments rippling beneath flesh, each finger decorated with at least one ring. Severus flicks his gaze from the basket back up to her, unimpressed.

“The fumes,” she explains, her voice breaking the silence, “they enhance the inner eye.”

Severus blinks; once, twice, three times. He knows, now, that Sybill’s  _inner eye_  is vastly limited, that the one prophecy he’d overheard is likely the extent of her talent. He doesn’t know why she keeps up the façade. Doesn’t care to.

“Cranberries, too,” Sybill continues. She pulls a pouch from her robe, gathers a few in her palm, as if to show him. “Dried. For the colour. It means—”

“Health,” Severus interrupts. “Protection.”

It’s ridiculous, Severus thinks, that she somehow thinks he doesn’t know. Even if he doesn’t believe the superstitions, symbolism, elemental magic—it’s knowledge any decent wizard should know. Knowledge he’d taught himself at the age of ten, eleven, twelve.

“And love,” Trelawney adds, looks to him. Her eyes are owlish, magnified behind her glasses. It’s unnerving; to have her look at him like that, to have her look at him at all.

Severus reaches forward, curls his fingers around the edge of his basket. There’s enough there to use—he sees no point in sitting around, dragging it out. He lifts it, settles it against his side, and moves toward the door.

Behind him, Trelawney follows, words on candles and symbols and tea leaves falling from her lips, her voice wispy as she talks to herself. Severus breaths through his nose, face fixed in a scowl; frustrated, exasperated.

As Trelawney starts on about crystal balls, of how she’d seen pleasure in his future, Severus thinks that maybe he’d made the wrong decision; that perhaps Azkaban would have been better than  _this._

**

The entire staff is involved with decorating the Yule log, because of course they are. Severus almost tries to leave, but then Filius’ hand is on his sleeve, and Albus is talking about  _community_ , his gaze flicking across to Severus with a pointed look, and there’s no possible way to sneak out without causing a scene.

He thinks he’s not settled in, Dumbledore. Thinks he’s had issues adapting to life as a member of the staff; even now, over two years after he’d taken up post as Potions Master. For his part, Severus thinks he’s settled just fine, thinks it’s Albus’ ridiculous attempts at  _group bonding_  that he has issue with.

He’s civil; friendly, even, with a few. Minerva, Hooch, Aurora—they were fine to be around. Severus doesn’t quite understand why that isn’t enough.

A body settles beside him, and Severus turns, sees Minerva standing there. She’s got a smirk on her face, two mugs in hand. She passes one to Severus, gaze fixed on where Trelawney stands, adjusting candles. There is a record playing in the background, soft, classical tunes filling the room with a low murmur, and through it, Severus can hear Trelawney’s voice, can hear her conversation with Aurora—something about sun deities and their importance to the Solstice.

“She’s been rather fixated on you,” Minerva murmurs. Severus can hear the thinly veiled amusement, knows that Minerva finds it entertaining. “Rolanda thought you were going to hex her at one stage.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Severus mutters, and Minerva’s smirk widens.

“I thought you might’ve enjoyed the predications,” she says. “What was it, again? A steamy romance in the New Year?”

“A sensual passion to end the season,” Severus corrects, and then wonders why he’d bothered. He sighs, brings the cup of tea to his mouth, pleased to note that Minerva had added quite a bit of scotch to the brew.

“Sounds promising.” Minerva murmurs, and Severus turns to glare at her, annoyed when all she does in response is laugh. A hand curls around his arm, Minerva’s pat almost maternal. “It’s the holiday season,” she says. “Try and lighten up.”

As she moves toward Albus, Severus thinks that that’s rather easy for her to say—she isn’t the one whose intimate relations are being brought up every other minute.

**

Snow crunches beneath his boots, the tail of his robe dragging across the earth, damp already. The air is cold, crisp, the wind icy and unwelcome. It penetrates Severus’ skin, even through his robe; the chill embedding itself into his flesh. His face is numb, his hands too.

The Winter Solstice; the shortest day and the longest night. Magical, in every sense of the word. Severus would never admit it outright, but when Aurora had suggested a  _proper_  celebration, he hadn’t been opposed to the idea; far from it. He has memories, of when he was younger, of when he’d look out the clouded window of Spinner’s End, eyes fixed on the sky, his mother’s voice in his ear. She’d tell him tales, would recite old folklore, teach him of tradition and culture. They’d rarely been able to celebrate it then, but to hear about it had been enough.

There is a fire before them, their log alight. Severus stands, transfixed, almost, as he watches the flames burn. Hues of red, yellow, orange mix together, create an incandescent light. It cackles, the embers floating under the open sky like a sea of luminescent fireflies, fading away to nothing as they hit the ground. In the background, Severus can hear Aurora recite a tale of Ra, her voice low and soft as it carries across the open space.

There is a crunch of snow as someone approaches, and Severus knows who it is before she’s started to speak; the jostling of jewellery familiar, now. He turns, sees Sybill eye the basket at his feet; the woven wood piled high with clippings of asphodel, fluxweed, lemongrass. The Solstice, it offers magic no other night does, magic built around growth, progression; magic which seeps into the Earth, enhances abilities. He’d picked what he could get his hands, not willing to miss the opportunity.

Trelawney’s gaze drifts from the basket to his body, settles on his face. Severus stares, and Sybill meets his eye, unblinking.

Legilimency is an old habit, a survival tactic he’d picked up in the midst of war. To tap into it now is not a conscious decision, but tap into it he does. It’s only shallow probing; he does not dig deep, does not delve into the darkest pits of Trelawney’s mind. Even so, her defences crumble with barely any effort, the thoughts at the forefront easy to read.

He sifts, quickly. There are images that pass in a blur; casual things, boring things. Classes and conversations, meals and meetings. But there are other things, too, things like Sybill sat at a desk, a teacup in her hand, empty save the leaves. He sees her scrawl the word  _angel_  down on a spare piece of parchment, sees her at the same desk on a different day, the dark wood covered in candles and mirrors. Sees her there a third time, a delicate hand curled around a crystal ball. Another image accompanies it, fleeting and yet distinct.

It comes in flashes; in snapshot images of the two of them together. He sees Sybill’s body beneath his, sees naked flesh, cries of pleasure. There is a feeling of intimacy that comes with it, a sensation of warmth, compassion; so strong that it almost makes him stumble.

The connection is broken, Trelawney’s gasp audible even over the cackle of fire. Her pale face has warmed, the high cheekbones coloured with a soft, pink blush, her lips parted, the glisten of a tongue just visible in the light. Severus breaths; slow, heavy. There is something stirring inside him—a curiosity, a whisper of want. He blinks, tries to dispel the image, the  _effect_ , but it remains. Flashing behind his eyelids like some sort of half-dream. His stomach churns.

Sybill coughs, clears her throat. “A vision,” she starts, stops, looks away.

“That’s way—”

“Yes.”

A silence follows. They’ve drawn attention, now, some of the staff looking their way. Severus turns, only slightly, so they see his shoulder, the profile of his face. This would, he thinks, have to happen where they can’t escape. Where it can’t be ignored.

“I thought...” The sentence remains unfinished. Sybill’s speech is unusually hesitant, nervous.  _Vulnerable._  “If you wanted...”

A proposition. Severus stares, feels eyes bore into his back. He turns, glares over his shoulder, catches Sprout hurrying to look away. When he turns back, Trelawney is looking up at him—eyes wide, the golden flicker of flames just visible in the frames of her glasses.

He wonders, briefly, if he can dispute a vision; if succumbing to this fresh desire is a choice or simply fate. He wonders if he gets a say. He wonders if he’s simply making excuses.

A moment passes. Severus watches as the hope in Sybill’s gaze fades to resignation, as she starts to turn away. She won’t ask again, he thinks, if she leaves. This is it.

She steps, once, twice, three times; ready to walk away. Severus reaches out in a sharp, fluid movement, his long fingers curling around her wrist. Her sleeve has ridden up, the bare skin warm, soft.  _Inviting._  She looks to him, her brow raised slightly in surprise. The hope, he notices, has returned.

He doesn’t speak. They stare at each other, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

This is answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Context for what Severus sees when he looks into Sybill's mind:  
> *To see an angel in your teacup suggests good news, especially in love-related matters.  
> *The mirror thing is a form of Solstice divination. The idea is that you place two mirrors so that they reflect two candles and each other. You search for the seventh reflection in the mirror, which is where you’re supposed to see the reflection of your one true love.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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